


I Hope That You Burn

by Ret



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Everyone is gay and Krem is my perfect son, Halward Pavus' A+ Parenting, M/M, Rescue, Salem Witch Trials, Slow Burn, Witch AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-01-28 08:44:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12602748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ret/pseuds/Ret
Summary: Salem Witch Trials AU - Dorian is a witch, or at least that's what the public has decided. He is captured by the mob his father formed and is about to be burned at the stake when a group calling themselves the Chargers come to his rescue. He escapes with them, these defenders of the wrongfully accused. However, as Dorian slowly loses control of his very real power in battle, what will happen when the Chargers see what he can no longer hide?





	1. Survive Today

1\. Survive Today

"WITCHES WALK AMONG US," screams the posters nailed to every post on every corner in a thick, blaring font. A lone noble walks home, rolling his eyes. He is untouchable to their hunt- for now, at least. It was easy to look innocent when one's father is the leader of their savagery. Lord Halward Pavus is a man who could only be described as cruel. He aims his mob at enemies, striking them down in broad daylight without ever lifting a finger himself other than to strike the final match.

The lone noble finally arrives home. He is disheveled, though he'd tried to clean up a bit to hide his 'proclivities.' As he carefully steps through the back door to their dark estate, he jerks when he sees his father there in the room, sitting at a small table, glaring bloody murder at his son.

"You're late, Dorian." Halward's deep growl is like gravel under fingernails. The man in question, Dorian, simply slides an easy smile into place.

"Apologies, Father. It would seem your stocks were not properly documented and I had to go fix the error. How many more missing horses could be left unaccounted for?" They've gone through this song and dance many times.

"I suppose it's easy to fix an error you created," Halward shot back as Dorian turned to walk away. "You couldn't have expected to hide behind excuses forever."

Dorian turns back, meeting his father's glare evenly. He knew the man would find out eventually- hell, he would be shocked if Halward hadn't at least an inkling of suspicion. Dorian feels his blood run cold.

"You are to be the heir of the House Pavus, the one to continue on our line and lock in our power. What will the people think when they eventually find out about your shameful choices," his father spits, freezing fury building in dark eyes.

"Shameful? So lying to myself would be best for you, then?" Dorian gives a broken laugh. "Ah, perfect! The puppet prince with a pasted on smile and a doting wife glued to his wooden arm, what a perfect family picture! Finally, something for you to be proud of!"

Halward snaps. He stands so violently it sent the chair crashing. He marches forward and grabs Dorian's collar, shoving his son against the wall.

"A whore is a whore, and no person so filthy will ever take over this family name!" He jerks Dorian's head back against the brick, emphasizing the final word. "You are a disgrace! No better than the witches that we set to burn!"

Dorian's ears are ringing, his head throbbing from the assault. His eyes are wide with bone-chilling fear. He wrestles his feelings down and carefully changes his expression to closed off anger.

"So you burn your own son for fucking men," he sneers, "How stately of you—"

CRACK. 

Halward pulls his hand away after hitting his son. Dorian stares at the ground, his mind shutting down. Disassociating. The usual. Halward rears back, and the beatings begin anew.

Like he said: They've gone through this song and dance many times.

"I would rather end the Pavus name than let it become tainted by the likes of you," his father hisses.

Distantly, through the protective fog in his mind, Dorian hears Halward shouting for guards. He feels himself get thrown into his room, the door slamming shut and locking behind him.

Blood hits the floor. He vomits.

The fog is clearing and his body is on fire, irritated broken skin pulling with every move. Dorian longs to sink down under the comforting grey again, but he knows doing so will take away precious time.

He hears footsteps approaching. This time, Dorian is ready.

Halward steps through the door, four members of his personal guard following. As two guards grab Dorian and hoist him up, Halward frowns.

"Such a disappointment," he murmurs as Dorian's body hangs limp, head down, unconscious. Inside, heat is building in his chest and Dorian's brain is shouting GET OUT, GET OUT, YOU NEED TO RUN—

Suddenly, the guards scream. Their metal gloves heat and heat until their flesh melts away from bone and Dorian lunges forward, shoving his father aside as he bolts out the door. His lungs are aching as he fights back the need to hyperventilate. Dorian's mind is screaming and he hears the two guards fall, all of their skin eating away until martyred corpses remain.

'What am I...?'

Well, he knew what he'd become if he was captured now: a goner. So Dorian runs. He leaps over and runs down the stairs, nearly tripping in his haste. He can hear his father chasing. Dorian bolts to the front door, a beastly whine building in the back of his throat as he drowns in fear and yanks at the doorknob. It's locked. He hears footsteps approaching and inwardly begs for help he knows won't come.

He feels a tug in the muscles of his hands. The pull races up his arms and into his ribs. He thinks of the guards who were simply following orders. He feels the energy left behind in their remains upstairs, and as his father finally storms into view, Dorian grasps hold of the tense line he feels coming from the bodies and jerks his arms back, pulling the energy back up.

Two remaining guards become four again. Deep violet spirits crash into view and Dorian feels his heart ache as the living are torn apart by the dead. His mind can't begin to understand, to comprehend. He looks to his father and sees nothing thing but fear. Dorian reaches for the building heat in his chest and turns back to press his hands to the lock, melting it away as the gfinal guard releases his dying breath.

"I'm sorry," Dorian whispers, knowing it will never be enough. This thing that he's become will drag him to the depths of hell.

Soon, as the spirits fade away and only himself and his father remain, Dorian kicks open the door and escapes.

Halward muscles down his fear, his shock over what he surely created. The man grabs a torch from the wall, running into town and waking the people and shouting of witches. He created a monster out of his only child, and now he must be the one to put it down.


	2. Cathedrals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's for your own good."

2\. Cathedrals

Dorian shuts his eyes tight, hands pulling at his hair as his kneeling body shakes. He is hiding in a random stable, hoping the livestock will hide the sounds of his lungs. He can't breathe, there's not enough air, he needs to calm down—

Footsteps again and again, a mountain of footsteps that charge through town in the distance. Eventually, they become louder and the stable door crashes open. Dorian remains still, holding his breath as his lungs ache. He can hear the townspeople murmuring about witches.

'Is that what I am?' he asks himself. 'A witch to be burned?'

Soon, he hears a few of them approach his hiding spot, and he knows there's no way to avoid it now. As they approach the boxes of supplies he hides behind, Dorian makes a run for it. He lunges over the boxes and pushes past anyone in his way, bolting out the door and making a break for the woods. The dense forest would be his only chance at losing the mob now.

Too bad the witch hunt had already begun.

Dorian falls as a thrown blade embeds itself into his side, jolting his nerves into a panic. Dorian shouts, trembling hands reaching to grab the hilt as his side throbs. He can hear the thunderous feet of the mob, his father at the forefront with an empty hilt.

"Shit," he hisses, hopelessness crawling into his voice, "shit, shit, shit..."

He tries to focus, centering in on the pain to keep himself from sinking back into the fog. He imagines tendons mending back together, skin growing over the wound, and as he focuses Dorian slides the blade out.

No blood. He is truly damned, but for now he lives.

Dorian grips the knife in shaking hands, holding back hyperventilating as he reaches the edge of the woods. Thick underbrush snags at his clothes, tearing at the skin it catches. Dorian is too panicked to focus on healing. He can't breathe, his heart is pounding, his blood pumping in his ears. His body is starting to shut down with pure exhaustion. A root catches his ankle, and the former Pavus heir falls. The thunderous steps are growing louder. Dorian drags himself behind a thick bush, his frame wracked with silent sobs and visible tremors.

The thunder powers past him, but a sudden shout from Halward nearby quiets the crowd. In hiding, Dorian curls tighter with dread, one arm pulling his own hair to keep himself grounded and the other clenched over his own mouth in fear of making a sound.

"We've lost 'im!" a woman in the mob shouts, and Dorian recognizes her to be the owner of the local library. He'd been by only a few days ago, having had a deep discussion about the history of Tevinter with her. Now, she and every other member of the community he grew up in was hunting him.

"Not quite," Halward murmurs, barely audible, as he spots the disturbed earth where Dorian had pulled himself out of sight. The head Pavus narrows his eyes. He takes a blade from another citizen, carefully approaching the thick foliage. With controlled steps, Halward then yanks back the bush just enough to spot the thing that had taken his son.

Dorian jumps, struggling to get to his feet as his clothes are caught on branches. Halward grabs him by the back of his coat, dragging the man kicking and screaming into the center of the mob. They scream with delight and fear, tearing at him. Halward holds the knife to his throat, and Dorian goes still.

"This creature, this witch, has taken my son's image," he shouts to the jeering crowd, "It is a monster, a sodomite, and has brought nothing but misfortune to our people!" 

Violent shouts and cheers fill the dark air. Dorian's eyes burn with fury.

"This is madness!" He pleads out, knees shaking. "My father has gone insane! You must see this!"

Halward pulls the knife closer so it grazes Dorian's throat.

"Where is your wound?" Halward hisses, realization dawning, "Look! You all saw my blade embedded in this monster, and now there is nothing but torn cloth left behind!"

Halward carefully motions a few in the crowd forward. "Bind the monster," he orders, and a man rips part of Dorian's shirt off, gagging the man with it and tying it tight. Dorian snarls, teeth biting into the black fabric as a woman approaches with rope, roughly binding his hands in front of him.

Dorian is dragged, knife still pressed against his throat, out of the placebo safety of the woods and through the city. Finally, they reach the town center, a lone stake standing at the helm as a dark omen. Tears gather in Dorian's eyes, spilling over and soaking the cloth gagging him as his body shakes with sobs.

This is it, he thinks through panicked fog.

Halward passes him off to two men, and they yank him towards the wooden pole, slamming his back against it and savagely binding him to the stake. The mob shouts and jeers at him, throwing more wood onto the pile beneath him. At the front of the group stands Halward Pavus, who stares with ice in his eyes and vacancy in his heart.

"It's for your own good," he growls to the bound man.


	3. Erase Yourself

3\. Erase Yourself

"It's for your own good."

The bright fires of the mob unfocused, blending into hallucinating strobe lights and winding aimless lights. Every one of Dorian's senses were overloaded. He screwed his eyes shut. The bite of the rope faded to a dull background ache. A new yet familiar cold built up from the base of his spine, clawing its way up his back and into his throat. Dorian barely choked the panic down, opening his eyes to look out at the mob. He saw there faces, looked into their eyes and as he felt the heat build, Dorian could feel the ice climb have higher.

Bound and gagged as the crowd lit the base of the steak he was strapped to, Dorian fought back the ice that was screaming to attack. The crowd would kill him happily, but he couldn't live knowing he killed these people by monstrous instinct. Better to die.

Every sense was shouting at him as the heat below grew. Dorian clenched his fists, teeth gritted behind the gag, eyes shut tight in fear. He couldn't hold it back any longer and everything hurts it hurts it HURTS-

"Let him down!"

The ice retreated slowly. Dorian looked out, afraid to see if he'd razed them all. Slowly, sound trickled back into focus. He could feel the pinch of the ropes.

A small group of soldiers- no, mercenaries- were fighting back the mob. An elf fought to hold Halward captive. A Tevinter man was desperately throwing water on the flames as a massive Qunari sprinted through the screeching mob towards Dorian, shoving people out of the way as his friend fought back the flames licking Dorian's feet. The ox called to one of his men, a knife hilt was rushed into his hand, and the Qunari chaotically sliced at the ropes trapping Dorian.

"We're going to get you out of here," the Qunari murmured as he finished cutting away the bindings. "You'll be safe from now on. I'll make sure of it."

Dorian fell forward onto the Qunari, tense and shaking. His feet were throbbing. He felt a comforting warmth enfold him, felt the pounding of feet as his rescuers hauled ass to escape with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't written a new fic since the early 2000s weeb days please be forgiving.


	4. Dirty Mouth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Krem and Bull. Again. But this time without a fight.
> 
> (This chapter was tip tapped on my phone so apologies if there's issues, I'm just a cool dad trying his best to use technology!)

4\. Dirty Mouth

The dark is a numb sort of kindness, but it doesn't last. Footsteps. Swaying, heavy footsteps. Dorian's brow twitches, his fingers clench and unclench. The world around him grows louder until he finally opens his eyes to groggy figure out where the hell he was.

The first thing he notices is that the lacing pain in his feet had lulled to a dull ache. The second thing was that he was in a tent warmed with daylight. Dorian groaned audibly as he sat up, the hustle and bustle of his saviors sillouetted through the thin tent's sheet.

"Fresh meat's up!" A man called out with a hint of Tevinter accenting his speech. Dorian rubbed his eyes, hoping that name wasn't literal. He already felt enough like roasted meat, if the bandages on his feet had anything to say about it.

Footsteps drew near. Dorian tensed, his hands balled into fists where they propped him up. He could feel, in his fear, the bone deep rumble of energy that had made itself known to him in his last conscious moment. How long had it been?

The tent flap was opened in a rush, a handsome but rough brunette entering.

"So," the man said, and Dorian recognized his voice from earlier. "Boss says we're helping you so long as you'll let us. Do me a favor and don't get any ideas of stabbing us in the foot as thanks."

Dorian was quiet; a rare thing for sure. He didn't feel threatened yet, which was surely a good sign, right?

He nodded

"First thing's first. I'm Cremisius Aclassi. Call me Krem. We, the Chargers, rescued your sorry lot from a witch trial. We do that thing. Boss doesn't like innocent people dying because some mob says they shoot glitter out the arse."

Krem rolled his eyes and Dorian nodded with a small wry smile.

"As much as I'd love to be pompous," he began, his voice a croak from the smoke, "I- thank you. All of you. And I don't say that often," he added with a hopeless, mirthless laugh.

Krem gave a half grin.

"Right. Basic info out of the way, our medic's going to check on those burns of yours again soon. Boss is gonna want to talk to you after. Don't stare when you do, I know the shit Tevinter feeds you about his lot."

Ah, the Qunari then, Dorian recognized.

"Noted," he quipped back, his voice slowly regaining strength.

Krem nodded, leaving the tent just as swiftly as he'd entered.

Dorian considered his standing. He wasn't sure what these Chargers would ask of him now. Surely they expected something in return for rescuing him? Dorian's head hurt just thinking about it, impending dread climbing up his throat.

One stern meeting with their friendly neighborhood medic later and Dorian was growing antsy. Being still usually drew him completely mad, but now there were no distractions. His feet weren't healed enough to walk just yet. All he could do was wait until this "Boss" was ready to deal with him, he supposed.

The day dragged on. As evening approached, there was a commotion of friendly chatter outside of his tiny tent realm. From the gist of it, Dorian figured that a smaller group had just returned with dinner. Those heavy footsteps were back. Dorian felt a bubbling of nervous energy climbing up his chest. Before he could wrestle it down, the door to his fabric world whirled open and a hulking figure stooped in the frame. Dorian jumped at the sudden appearance, his breath catching in his throat with a split second keen.

"Sorry, didn't mean to startle you," a deep voice rumbled. Dorian shook his head to clear it, muttering that it was alright. He took in the man before him. The Qunari was missing an eye and a few fingers, his calm smile a juxtaposition to his appearance. Tall, muscles on muscles, and battle scarred. Shit. Dorian was a weak willed man as is.

'Don't stare, damn you,' Dorian thought harshly to himself.

"So," the Qunari drawled, "Looks like you made it out pretty well, all things considered. Name's the Iron Bull. Use that 'the' to really butter me up." He chuckled to himself as Dorian cocked an eyebrow. Shit.

"I'll keep that in mind," he replied, voice having regained most of it's strength, only a hint of a breathless rasp.


	5. Bad Town, Pretty Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paranoia on high

5\. Bad Town, Pretty Face

Days turned to weeks, and Dorian knew he was in trouble. Not only was he in the care of a mercenary camp, he actually liked them. He firmly avoided Iron Bull— The Iron Bull, that is, that 'the' echoing in his brain begrudgingly. A sodomite indeed, he thought self depricatingly. He found himself slowly letting the first layer of his guard down the more familiar he grew with the Chargers. Krem, at least, seemed to understand the walls that being an outcast of Tevinter forced one to build. The sudden presence of familiar companions made both his heart ease and his paranoia spike.

In the end, Dorian knew firmly what he was. And he knew firmly that the Chargers would turn on him were they to find out. No one trusted the witch who hid among the herd.

Feet healed and mind uneasy, Dorian avoided training with the others when he could. This, however, was fruitless when Bull was involved.

"Catch, pretty boy!" Boomed the Iron Bull, the man throwing something fast at Dorian's face-

Dorian caught it quickly in reflex, eyes narrowing at the staff now in his hands. Why a staff...? Staffs were associated with magic in his homeland. Most of the Chargers usually trained with sword and shield, did Bull know? Was he hinting that he knew? Was he giving Dorian a head start to run and potentially fight back? Was-

"Come now, no need to look so panicked," Bull soothed, chuckling softly, "We have to learn more than just swords around here, we don't always have the luxury of a decent blade when shit hits the fan."

"Right, of course," Dorian nodded hautily, swallowing his panic down. Safe, for now. His tense shoulders relaxed minutely, the Bull looking at him with nothing but ease and kindness. The man never treated Dorian like he was fragile, not even after dragging his half-dead ass off a stake. The last thing Dorian Pavus would stand was pity, and he valued every hardy sense of empathy that he received during his time with the Chargers.

An hour of training later and Dorian flopped into his seat at dinner with new bruises under his clothes, and they certainly weren't gained in the fun way. Glancing at himself later that night, most were already nearly healed. Just another reminder that the only good Dorian had managed to find would not last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no see, welcome to Dorian being a relatable anxious homosexual. Aka I project my own gay panic onto him. Rip.

**Author's Note:**

> I love Dorian and I love putting him in Bad Situations because I love him lmao


End file.
